


Change

by dragonflies_and_dalmatians



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflies_and_dalmatians/pseuds/dragonflies_and_dalmatians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Change can come slowly, or all at once. For Constance and D’Artagnan, it was both. Post S1, most definitely AU after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Musketeers and its world belongs to the BBC. I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.  
> Author’s Note: I can’t believe no-one has been there with this idea yet, unless they have and I just haven’t seen it. Oh well. Hope you enjoy!

The Musketeers’ barracks is nice, D’Artagnan reflects as he shaves his face in the mirror next to his bed. Constance’s bathroom had a mirror, an old thing with a crack running down the middle; it showed him what his face would look like if it ever met a blade. Constance had shaved him once, in the early morning when her husband was gone and her breath was sweet against D’Artagnan’s neck. Her eyes followed the path of the razor and her hand was as steady as could be, it was he who had trembled and made the blade slip, a cut the grazed his chin and gave Porthos much mirth throughout the day. But now early morning shaves with Constance are gone, and he is in the nice Musketeers barracks. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it?

“Come now, D’Artagnan.” Porthos claps him on his back later that day, as they sit and take rest in the tavern. “What do you have to be so sad about? You are a musketeer and we have foiled the plot to kill the queen.”

“Leave him be, Porthos.” Athos drinks his wine and watches D’Artagnan over the rim of his glass. “Where is Aramis?”

“Last I saw he was heading upstairs with some girl.” Porthos has long legs and he stretches them out under their table, taking up all of the room.

D’Artagnan raises his glass to his lips and feels the new musketeer leather barely yield. Its new and hard and he feels people’s eyes on him when he walks past and the insignia shows its face. Do people look at him differently, now he’s a Musketeer? Does Constance? He has not seen her for so long. He wishes he had a picture of her, a likeness that he could keep close. His fear is that he will forget what she looks like. His worst fear is that she will forget what he looks like.

In the background, someone starts a jig on an out-of-tune fiddle. It doesn’t take long before Porthos is up to show the man how the tune really sounds and soon dancing erupts all around them. Their friend is in the middle, of course; his constant good cheer cannot help but bring a smile to D’Artagnan’s face. _What would Constance think of this?_

He walks past the Bonacieux house, on his way back to the barracks. His hand lingers on the door, the handle. When was the last time he was in this house? Constance’s face comes before him, her name a whisper against his skin, an ache deep inside. D’Artagnan never gave much thought to souls before, but now he is sure that his is somewhere in the deepest part of him, that line between breast and groin, between the liver and stomach, perhaps, or tucked away between heart and lungs. If someone were to take a blade and cut, Constance’s name would be inside. He wants her to come outside so he could see her, but what would he say? _I miss you? I love you? Why am I not enough for you? Why are we not enough for you?_

Movement stirs within the house and D’Artagnan stumbles backwards, walks away. The Musketeer barracks is cold and damp, his bed narrow and cold. There is a leak in the roof and rainwater drips onto his forehead. _I miss you, Constance_.

###

Constance lies in bed, her hand on her stomach. She feels cold, then hot, then cold again. _A fever, that’s all it is_. Her stomach rolls and she reaches for her chamber pot.

“Constance?” A tentative voice in the doorway to her bedchamber, a shadow on the floor. For a split second Constance thinks its D’Artagnan come to her like a dream, but then her husband steps into the light. “Constance, are you alright?”

“What do you care?” Constance struggles to her feet, wipes her mouth. She’s so thirsty.

“I do care, Constance.” Bonacieux has a glass of water in his hand and he offers it to her. Constance wants to slap the glass away, but she’s too thirsty. “I have never seen you unwell before.”

“I have never been unwell like this before.” Constance takes the water and drains the glass.

“Would you like me to send for the doctor?”

“No.” More than anything, Constance wants Bonacieux to go away so she can close her eyes and sleep until morning.

“Well … I’ll bid you goodnight, then.” Constance crawls back to bed, face down.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, only that when she wakes light filters through the open window and hits her right in the face. She raises herself off the bed, puts a hand to her head. Bonacieux’s figure darkens her door again.

“I, uh … I’ve run you a bath. I thought it might make you feel better.”

Constance watches him carefully, trying to find something, anything, of her husband in the man standing in the doorway. She’d thought him handsome enough, on their wedding day, and even after they married there was enough about him to make him appealing in her eyes. She meant what she said to him on that day, when she told him that she didn’t know that she was unhappy until D’Artagnan came into her life. How he looked at her when she said those things.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Isn’t a husband allowed to run a bath for his wife when she is unwell?”

“I am not your wife, Bonacieux.” Constance smoothes down her dress and can smell her own stale sweat. “You know that as well as I. Emotional blackmail is not a marriage.”

Bonacieux clears his throat. “The water is getting cold.”

Constance makes her way into the small bathroom. The tub is full of warm water, steam rising to the ceiling. There is a cracked mirror there too, and Constance peers at her reflection, puffy-eyed and blotchy. How I must look. She strips to nothing and climbs into the tub, sighing when the water hits her skin. _This does feel good_ , she admits begrudgingly.

The tub isn’t big enough for her to lie back completely, but she can wet her hair if her legs hang over the edge of the tub. A hand strokes her stomach and thighs, washing the grime away. She had wondered once, what it would be like to share this bath with D’Artagnan, to lean back against his chest and let him touch her wet skin, to see what the hairs on his legs looked like when they were wet. Silly things, really. Now all just a wish, _a little daydream_ , she had called it to D’Artagnan. _How I hurt him_. She isn’t sure what hurt him the most, when she first told him that she didn’t love him, or later, when she told him that she was willing to be manipulated by her husband into giving him up.

Her hand lingers on her stomach. Baths always help, when its that time of the month. She could lie in them for hours, the only time she ever felt truly clean. They helped with the cramps and the twisting, the discomfort … She sits up in the tub, water sploshing everywhere. _What time of the month is it?_ She looks out of the window, as if that will somehow help her. It is warm and wet, summer is coming. The last time she bled it was chillier, especially in the mornings and the evenings. The afternoons were warm; D’Artagnan’s hands had been cool against her skin as he gripped her tight and whispered her name against their joined bodies.

Constance’s heart races and she fears she might be sick. When was the last time she and Bonacieux shared a bed? She tries to remember. Once a month usually, he would come into her bed and they would lie together in the dark, a sheet around them. Constance always kept her eyes shut. With D’Artagnan she wanted to do it in the daylight, the sun on their skin. She wanted to keep her eyes open the whole time, watch his face, his eyes, the hitch in his breath. She and Bonacieux have not shared a bed since before D’Artagnan. Since before the summer rains came, but she remembers the cramps, the pain the gripped her stomach as she watched the rains.

“No.” She mutters, climbing out of the tub and reaching for a towel with trembling fingers. “No, no, no.”

 _Yes_ , she thinks, and knows in her heart that she is right. _Yes_.

###

The weeks pass, and Constance waits for the monthly charge that never comes. She sweats and her stomach rolls and sweats and prays for rain. Her stomach swells, just a little. No-one will notice for now, but soon, they will. _What am I going to do?_

At night, she lies in bed and weighs her options, her hand resting on her stomach. Bonacieux will never believe the child is his, Constance knows. Even if she wanted him to think that the life inside her is his, if she were to steal into his bed now and try to persuade him to lie with her, he would see through her in a moment. Just the thought of it turns her stomach. _I will never do that_ , she vows fiercely, her knuckles white on the bedsheets. _Even if Bonacieux throws me onto the street, I will not tell either of them that their father is anyone other than who he is. I will not let my child grow up not knowing who his father is_. She sits up with new resolve. _I must tell him. He deserves to know. D’Artagnan deserves to know that he is a father_.

She is full decided until she spies him in the street the next day. A fruit stall close to the Musketeer barracks, a playful smile for the girl who gifts him with a bag of oranges. He laughs and smiles with her, pays her more than the fruit is worth. She has not seen him in what feels like forever and can’t help but stare at the blue cloak that swirls around him, at the sharp leather uniform and that coveted leather cuff on his elbow. He is so handsome, she had almost forgotten. Sometimes he isn’t a face to her, but a voice, a smell, a feeling. Other times his likeness comes to her so clearly it is like he’s really there. _If he were to find out about me, what would he do?_

Thoughts come unbidden to her mind. _Musketeers do not marry. The King and the realm are their wives, their children, their mistresses and families, all their relations in this life. What would he do, if I were to tell him? Would he give up the Musketeers? Would he want to return to Gascony, raise the child as he was raised?_

A nightmare scenario comes into her mind. _What if he won’t want me? What if he rejects me, rejects us?_

 _He would never do that_ , she decides. _He is not that kind of man_.

Still, the thought persists, lives in the dark, irrational recess of her mind. _But what if he does?_

There’s a woman in the Court of Miracles, Constance has heard talk of her. She helps women who have found themselves in … delicate situations and wish to be unburdened. For a fee, of course. A herbal remedy, a rusty needle, Constance has heard terrible talk, butchered women dying agonising deaths. _No_. She pushes the thought from her mind, curves her hand around her stomach. _I won’t do that. If D’Artagnan doesn’t want us, I will move, to Brittany or Poitiers, maybe even Bordeaux. I’m an able seamstress, I could make up a story about his father, her father, a dead Musketeer or soldier from one of the wars. I won’t give them up_.

D’Artagnan doesn’t see her, down the street at the fruit stall. Constance backs away and finds herself standing next to Aramis.

“Madame.” He tips his hat, bids her good day. _He looks tired_ , Constance thinks. He has looked tired for weeks, since the siege at the convent. Everyone heard about it, of course. No doubt it will become an infamous tale of Musketeer bravery. Since then all the Musketeers have been busy, no doubt guarding the Queen now that she is with child. A royal heir is long overdue and much anticipated. People speculate on what the King will name his son, if he will be brave and strong or lazy and insolent. Constance thanks God that her child will not be subject to that kind of scrutiny.

“Aramis.” Constance smiles. “Nice to see you.”

“And you, Madame. You look remarkably well. Glowing, in fact.”

Constance flushes. Her stomach rolls. _Does she really glow?_ “Very kind of you to say so.” Her head really wants to swivel, to see if D’Artagnan is still there. “How have you been?”

“Busy, Madame.”

“I’m sure the Queen’s good news must keep the Musketeers occupied.”

Aramis’ eyes flash. “Indeed. May I walk you to your house?”

“That’s very kind of you, but-“ Constance’s stomach rolls and she clutches the wall for support.

“Madame. Constance.” Aramis catches her arm, his voice a murmur. “Are you alright? You have gone rather pale.”

“I think I just need to go home now.”

Aramis walks her to her house and Constance prays that her husband is not at home. Mercifully, the house is still and silent and she smiles and Aramis, smoothes down her dress.

“I assure you, I am well. Truly, I do not wish to hold you up.”

Aramis stares at her, something twitching around the corners of his eyes. _He is watching me_ , Constance realises. _He is watching me, trying to work out what has happened, what has changed_. Eventually he smiles, tips his hat, and is gone. Constance sinks into the chair, her curls her hands into fists. _I must tell D’Artagnan, I must._

###

D’Artagnan is practising with Aramis when the older Musketeer’s sword hand stills and his eyes flicker to something behind D’Artagnan’s shoulder. “D’Artagnan.” He murmurs, his smile diplomatic. “Madame.”

 _Madame. Not something. Someone_. D’Artagnan feels his insides go very watery. _Which woman would come here?_ He’s almost afraid to find out until he squares his shoulders and wipes the sweat from his brow. _I’m a Musketeer, now. We do not run from a fight, ever_.

God, she’s so beautiful, even more than he remembers. Her skin glows and her hair looks thick and luscious and if he closes his eyes he can remember how it felt beneath his fingers and how she smelled, fresh and warm and clean. “Madame Bonacieux.”

“D’Artagnan.” Constance shifts from one foot to another, wrings her hands like they’re a cloth full of water. “You … you look well.”

“What can I do for you, Madame?”

Constance looks from Athos to D’Artagnan. “I was hoping that we might have a private conversation.”

Athos tips his head and is gone before D’Artagnan can say a word. _Traitor_ , he thinks to his friend’s retreating back. He turns back to Constance and his heart aches. _Why is she here?_ Has she come to torment him some more, to remind him that they can never be? He sets to cleaning the mud from his blade, slow, steady strokes that belie his shaking hands. When he is satisfied that the blade is clean, he gives her his full attention. “How can I help you, Madame?”

Constance glances around the yard, at the duelling Musketeers, their low murmurs. If they notice her they pay no heed, but she’s nervous, agitated. “Might we have a moment in private?”

He takes her to one of the rooms they use for storage. There’s nothing there but sacks of grain and salted pork and bottles of wine, but its quiet and away from prying eyes and ears. Constance takes a seat on a grain sack and looks up at him, her eyes big and wide and full of tears.

“What is it?” God may damn him but D’Artagnan has never been able to resist her tears. “Constance, what is wrong? Is it your husband?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Constance wipes her nose on a handkerchief, looks at him with her wide eyes. “D’Artagnan, I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

When she cries again, he smiles. “Surely it cannot be all that bad?”

Constance looks up at him and says, “I’m going to have a child.”

D’Artagnan’s legs feel very heavy and wooden. He reaches for the table, grips it before his legs give way. He feels like he has been punched so hard his stomach is in his mouth. “A child. When?”

Constance looks at the floor. “In about six months, maybe a little more.”

 _Six months_. D’Artagnan wipes his mouth. He doesn’t pretend to know much about what happens when women have children. Sure, he knows a lot about the part that makes them, and he had seen cows and sheep birth their young, but this, this … His brain whirs, stops, almost closes down.

“Six months.” He manages. “That would mean that you’re-“

“Its yours.” Constance stares at him and tears slip down her cheeks.

“Mine?” D’Artagnan finds a bottle of wine under the table, pulls the cork out with his teeth and drinks. “You’re sure?”

Constance looks like she wants to hit him. “Of course I’m sure.” She snaps. “Do you really think I’d be here if it was my husband’s?”

 _A child. Constance is with child. His child_. D’Artagnan tries to get up, fails, sinks down against the table. “A child.” He says, again and again and again, until Constance’s hands are in his and she’s at his side, speaking to him very quietly with grace and steel he always knew that she possessed, even if she didn’t. _I’m not asking for anything from you, D’Artagnan. But I won’t give up our child. And I’m telling Bonacieux. Hate me if you wish, but never hate our child. I just … I just thought that you should know_.

He follows her out of the barracks, takes her arm more forcefully than he had intended. “Where are you going?”

Constance looks at him as though he’s left his wits and senses back at the barracks, or maybe even in Gascony. “I told you. Back to my husband’s house.”

“You’re to tell him tonight?”

She squares her shoulders. “No time like the present.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of telling him on my own.”

D’Artagnan wants to tear his hair out in frustration. “I know you are. But I am in this as much as you. You should not tell him yourself.”

Bonacieux protests loud and long when Constance arrives in his kitchen with D’Artagnan behind her, but a forceful word from his wife silences him. He sits in his silk tunic and little silk stockings, no doubt a gift from the Cardinal, his face as pale as milk when Constance speaks. “You’re what?” He finally manages to splutter.

“I’m with child.”

Bonacieux’s eyes stray first to her stomach, still concealed beneath her corsets, and D’Artagnan’s hand goes to his pistol. Then Constance’s husband looks at D’Artagnan, and he can see the man’s mind begin to work. “His child.” He says. “That farmboy’s.”

“That farmboy is now a member of the King’s Musketeers.” Constance snaps. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Bonacieux wipes his mouth, his hands shake. “And what do you plan to do now? Stay here and see that I raise your bastard child?”

D’Artagnan is out of his seat, his sword drawn. “Talk like that again and it will be the last time you have a tongue.”

“I don’t want anything from you.” Constance says. “I wanted you to know the truth, from me.”

“And what do you intend to do? Stay here in Paris, watch the farmboy go off to fight, pray that he comes back with none of the necessary parts chopped off? How will you live? Do you think it will be easy, being a soldier’s wife, raising his child? My aunt was a soldier’s wife and believe me, it was nothing but pain and anguish, and a lot of time spent waiting for a man that never came home.”

It is dark when they step out into the night, D’Artagnan offers Constance his cloak, but she will not take it. “Constance, the night is chilly.”

“And I have not become a helpless woman just because I’m carrying your child.” Constance stares up at the moon, the sky full of stars. “When I was a girl I’d lie on the grass and count the stars, see if I could see patterns. I’d wonder what they would look like if I were in a field in England, or Spain, even Italy. I wanted to see those places.”

“Mayhaps you will, one day.” D’Artagnan offers her his arm. “Come back to the barracks, Constance. All will be well, I’m sure of it.”

“Tonight, maybe, but what about tomorrow?” Constance has tears on her cheeks, they look like jewels in the moonlight. “Bonacieux was right, D’Artagnan. What are we going to do?”

D’Artagnan pulls her close, holds her so tight he never wants to let her go. “Hush now. All will be well, I swear.”

Constance laughs against his tunic. “The last time you said that to me you almost got yourself killed.”

He finds her a room in the Musketeers barracks. Treville’s curses echo around his rooms. “This is no place for a pregnant woman!” He shouts.

“And where do you suggest that she goes?” D’Artagnan counters.

“Back to her husband!”

“No.” D’Artagnan shakes his head. He will not have Constance under that roof again. “No, Treville.”

“No?” His captain looks angry. “No? Did I fall asleep and wake in a land where you gave me orders?”

“It has been a long night.” Athos’ face is pensive and drawn. He hasn’t been sleeping. He hides it better than Aramis, but the two men are both tired and irritable. And hiding something. But now he speaks and for that D’Artagnan is grateful. “Surely one night cannot hurt, Treville? Madame Bonacieux may have my bed, if there is a shortage. I am happy to sleep in the stables; believe me, I have slept in worse.”

Treville looks from one Musketeer to the other. “You four will be the death of me.” He mutters. “One night, D’Artagnan. After that, you find this woman lodgings elsewhere, I don’t care if it is in the Court of Miracles, the palace or the Bastille itself. We are a bastion of the King’s Musketeers, not a hotel.”

“Thank you, Treville.” D’Artagnan closes his eyes and sighs with relief. “Thank you.”

Athos falls into step as they leave Treville’s rooms. “Madame Bonacieux-“

“Has left her husband.” D’Artagnan does not even know Constance’s last name, before she was married. How can he take care of her when he does not know these things? “Thank you, for speaking up for her. For me. For us both.”

Athos raises an eyebrow at D’Artagnan’s words. “It sounds like an interesting tale. That I look forward to hearing tomorrow over breakfast.”

Athos’ room is small and neat and the sheets smell faintly like wine. There’s a Bible in the corner, covered in dust. D’Artagnan’s half-afraid that he will find something with a blue flower on it, but the room is bare and empty. Constance sits on the small, narrow bed and looks very, very alone, and for the first time, D’Artagnan realises what this has cost her. He could have denied all knowledge of the child, let her live in disgrace while he walked through the streets of Paris with his head high and his blue cape untarnished. But she cannot. For better or for worse, her life has changed forever. He sits on the chair next to the bed, and takes her hands.

“You are the bravest woman I know.”

“I don’t feel brave.” Constance’s hands are cold from the night, and they shake.

 _I don’t feel brave either. But I will be brave for both of us_. D’Artagnan’s eyes stray to her stomach. _For the three of us_. “I’m sorry the room isn’t more hospitable, but Athos assures me that the sheets are clean.”

“Will you stay with me?”

He unlaces her with shaking hands. How sure his hands had been when he first did this, sure and scared and so excited it was a miracle that they made it to the bed. Her corset is tight and slips easily from her when its loose. Beneath she wears a red tunic and her breath hitches when his hands grace her stomach, lingering for just a second. When he pulls away her hands close over his, resting on her abdomen. There’s a slight swell there, nothing at the moment, the barest hint of life. _My child. Our child_.

They squeeze into Athos’ small bed, a jumble of arms and legs. Constance is rigid next to him, his warm arms around her. He kisses her hair, her neck, holds her close, just like he has wanted to do for months.

“It will all work out, Constance. I promise.”

Her voice is a whisper in the dark. “I hope you’re right.”

###

Constance wakes to a cold bed, the sound of metal on metal and the smell of powder. She shifts in the small space, so different to her bed at home. At her husband’s house. The previous night, the previous day, seems like a dream, not like the daydream that she and D’Artagnan had, but a dream all the same. She looks out of the window, down into the courtyard. Aramis and Athos are sparring in shirts and britches, Porthos looking on. Despite the early hour they are sweaty and look tired; clearly they have been at this for some time. She runs a hand over her stomach, feels the swell there and thinks about her husband’s words. _It was nothing but pain and anguish, and a lot of time spent waiting for a man that never came home._ Clearly she knows little about being a wife; that’s why she’s here, isn’t it? But if she knows nothing about being a wife then she knows even less about children, about birthing, about being a mother. She had no sisters, no mother or aunts, even female friends and neighbours. Bonacieux had not liked her keeping company. She vows that will change, now.

“You’re awake.” D’Artagnan slips through the door, taking care to close it. Like the others he’s wearing a shirt and britches, no weapons or cloak. He steps forwards and takes her face in his hands, a tender kiss to her forehead. “I hope their swordplay did not wake you.”

“Hardly play.” Constance cannot stop staring at the men in the courtyard. Now, more than ever, she understands just what it is D’Artagnan does. “Those swords look sharp.”

“I’ve been talking to Treville.” D’Artagnan has brought breakfast, cheese and bread and fruit. He gives her the lion’s share, pushes it towards her on a well-used plate. “About our situation.”

“That’s a word for it.” Constance nibbles on the cheese. Its hard and stale and probably the best thing she’s ever tasted.

“Divorce is not impossible, Constance. If the King of England can get one, so can you.”

“The King of England?” Constance wants to laugh. “And what am I going to do, once I have this divorce? Marry you?”

D’Artagnan drops his gaze, stares at his fruit. “You didn’t used to be so adverse to it.”

“That was before I thought you were marrying me because I was pregnant!”

D’Artagnan’s eyes flash. “You think that, truly?”

Constance sniffs. “Musketeers have no wives, D’Artagnan. If they have children, they are bastards. Duty is everything to them, duty and honour. Not much room for love between those two.”

“Our child will not be a bastard. Neither of you will suffer that.” D’Artagnan reaches for her hands. “I love you, Constance Bonacieux. I would have married you the first time I saw you, if you had not already been wed to another. Now eat. You have to keep up your strength.”

Constance ventures downstairs later, when her stomach has settled and she feels composed enough to see others. D’Artagnan is at her side, her hand light on his arm. For the first time in years, her ring finger is bare. It feels cold and strange, slightly thinner and compressed from where the ring bit into the flesh. Porthos now spars with Aramis where Athos had once done so, and the quiet Musketeer is off to one side wearing a quilted doublet. Sweat beads his brow and he gives Constance a smile when he sees them approach.

“I must apologise for my rather Spartan room, Madame Bonacieux.” He tips his head. “I did not know to expect company.”

“Its quite alright. Thank you, for letting me stay.”

“We didn’t mind him bunking in with us.” Porthos brings his sword down so hard that Aramis stumbles in the mud. “He doesn’t snore too much. Although he did spill a bottle of wine in your bed, D’Artagnan.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive.” D’Artagnan smiles. _He looks so happy_ , Constance thinks, and just for a moment, she lets herself share his optimism. _Maybe he is right, after all. Maybe I will be just like King Henry of England, and get a divorce after all_.

“Treville wants to see you.” Athos’ eyes go to the upper level, where the Musketeer captain stands, his arms folded. He nods politely at Constance, but his eyes are all for D’Artagnan. _What must this be costing him_ , Constance wonders.

D’Artagnan kisses her hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

Constance doesn’t hear all of what was said, just raised voices and the sounds of something breaking. “He’s always had a temper.” Porthos wipes mud from his face and swings his sword; Aramis blocks easily and the big Musketeer is on the ground.

“Treville or D’Artagnan?” Athos says with a wry smile. “Are we to expect the pleasure of your company again this evening, Madame?” He says to Constance.

Constance smoothes her dress and takes a deep breath. Why bother hiding what is probably all over the garment district of Paris by now, anyway? “I’m not Madame Bonacieux any longer, Athos.”

“I see.”

Constance nods. “Monsieur Bonacieux and I … parted ways yesterday.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“I’m not.” Porthos brushes the mud from his britches. “Sorry, Madame – Constance – but you’re too good for him. What kind of man keeps a comb in his waistcoat for his moustache?”

“Separation seems to agree with you, Constance.” Aramis has barely a speck of dirt on him. “But that could also be the company of our mutual friend.”

Constance wants to tell them, about the baby, but they are more D’Artagnan’s friends than they are hers and it feels wrong, to steal that news from him just so she can give it to them. So she nods and smiles and waits for D’Artagnan to come down which, at length, he does. He wears a scowl and his Musketeer cape.

“Walk with me.” He says to Constance.

He takes her arm as they leave the barracks, rarely have they been seen together like this in public before. “Not that way.” She says when he starts to lead them back towards her old house. “Let’s take a new route instead.”

They walk past a bakery and buy baguettes fresh from the oven, smeared with salty, yellow butter that melts on the bread. D’Artagnan finds flowers between two bricks that he presents to her with a smile, but his eyes are elsewhere and Constance waits for him to speak, which he does when they are on the bridge overlooking the river.

“Treville wants me to find lodgings for you.” D’Artagnan stares at the muddy water. “As soon as possible. He does not expect that a divorce will be easy to come by. You – we – must petition the King and Queen. Athos and Aramis saved the Queen’s life, once; perhaps they will be able to help us.”

“All this trouble.” Constance shakes her head. “You want to arrange everything. Aren’t you scared, even just a little?”

“Scared?” D’Artagnan smiles and he looks like a child himself. Will our child look like him, she wonders? “I’ve killed men with sword and musket. I’ve faced down the Cardinal’s guards, seen you held captive by a madwoman, been framed for murder. And none if it has scared me as much as this. But Musketeers do not run from fear. And I will not run from you. I meant what I said to you last night, Constance, truly. I love you, and I would marry you right here and now, on this very spot, if I could.”

They find a place not far from the barracks, next to the bakery; Constance can smell bread in the air, sugar and cinnamon. Its expensive, probably more than either of them would like, but its safe and clean and Constance vows to them both that she is going to find work, as far as she can. They invite Aramis, Athos and Porthos to see the place, and D’Artagnan tells them about the child. Porthos’ congratulations are hearty and warm, like ale on a cold night. Athos smiles and kisses Constance’s hand, but his eyes stray too often to Aramis, who hugs and kisses them both and proclaims very loudly that they are both luckier than they know. At length, the topic turns to Constance’s divorce.

“We must petition the King and Queen.” D’Artagnan says as Constance gives them bread and cheese and more wine. “We were hoping that since you did save her life, the Queen might listen to you.”

Aramis drains his glass and grins. Athos’ face is dark, but he nods and promises that he will do all that he can.

The days pass and Constance is convinced that her stomach has swelled more and more. “I’m getting fat.” She complains to D’Artagnan one night, as she presses her dress to her figure.

“You are not fat.” D’Artagnan lies on their bed and watches her with lazy eyes. “You are beautiful.”

“Men always say such things.”

“But you are beautiful. Now come here.” He kisses her softly and slowly, trails his fingers down her skin. “You could bear me ten children, and still be the most beautiful woman to me.”

“Ten!” Constance laughs. “You’re ambitious.”

“No. I just love you.”

D’Artagnan has gone to the Musketeer barracks when there is a knock on Constance’s door. “What has he forgotten this time?” Constance is smoothing her hair as she opens the door. “I … Your Grace!” She exclaims.

Queen Anne is a delicate beauty, young-looking with a mass of tumbling brown hair and piercing blue eyes. “Madame Bonacieux. May I come in and take tea with you?”

“I … of course, Your Grace.”

Queen Anne steps across the threshold to Constance’s home without servants or ceremony. She wears a simple silk dress, no gaudy jewels or elaborate collar, no adornments that would mark her out as anything other than a noblewoman come to buy baguettes from the bakery next door. _She does not wish to be recognised_.

“You have a pleasing home, Madame. May I call you Constance?”

Constance can say nothing except, “If it pleases you.”

The Queen smiles. Her left hand sits on her stomach, just swollen enough to indicate that she is pregnant, not fat. Her cheeks flush and she takes a seat at Constance’s table “I hear that you have left your husband.”

“I … yes, Your Grace.”

“And you seek a divorce so you can marry one of the King’s Musketeers.” Anne’s eyes move to Constance’s stomach. “Do you carry his child, Constance?”

 _In another life, our children might have been playmates_.

“They told you, Athos or Aramis.”

The Queen smiles, her countenance so serene that Constance is sure that her Queen could be the best card player in the whole country, if she was so disposed. “No, you just did. I have been told that it would be a great mercy if I were to arrange the dissolution of your marriage. He makes you unhappy, your husband?”

Constance pours tea and thanks God that she bought pastries just the other day. “I did not realise that I was unhappy, until I met D’Artagnan.”

The Queen nods, something flickering in her eyes. _Does she understand?_ As miserable as Constance’s marriage was, she cannot imagine living out that unhappiness in the public eye, the pressure to produce a male heir. _How many royal marriages are as miserable as mine was_ , she wonders. _This marriage will not be miserable, I am sure of it_.

“I’m not proud of my behaviour, Your Grace, but I’ll not run from it, either. I love D’Artagnan, and he loves me. I do not believe it fair to make three people unhappy for the rest of their lives, even if me and my husband were married in the sight of God.”

“You are fortunate that we agree.” The Queen smiles, sips her tea. “I will speak with the King and the Cardinal. You deserve happiness in this life, Constance. Your child deserves to know its father as well as its mother, and to see them happy. That is all any child deserves, I believe.”

It is Athos who delivers the decree a few days later, a small piece of paper stamped with the Cardinal’s seal. “I would keep this in a very safe place, if I were you.” He says. “The Cardinal has a reputation for … mislaying paperwork.”

###

They marry in the small church about a mile from the barracks. D’Artagnan wears his regimental colours and is all nerves and excitement. Constance wears a dress that she bought from one of the nicer stores close to their house, holds a long, teardrop bouquet to cover her growing bump. Aramis, Porthos and Treville act as witnesses, and Athos’s grip is gentle and firm as he walks Constance down the aisle and places her hands in D’Artagnan’s.

“God, you’re beautiful.” D’Artagnan smiles. He can’t believe it, that he’s here. He’d always imagined that if he were to ever marry, that it would be at the church near his farm, with that beautiful spire and the flowers that bloom between the gravestones, sunlight that comes through the stained glass windows to hit the altar. But then he looks at Constance and knows that this is better. _Not a dream_ , he realises. _A reality_.

The ceremony is short, D’Artagnan blinks and its done, his lips against Constance’s, and that’s it, they’re done. _Married, we’re married now_. Suddenly D’Artagnan’s life has gone from none to almost three. _Two years ago it was me and my father, alone on our farm. Now it is me and my wife and our child almost with us. How life changes when you don’t pay attention_.

A messenger waits for them as they leave the church. “Forgive me, Captain, but the King has asked for you all immediately.” The messenger’s face is pale and dappled with sweat. “There has been an attack on the Queen’s life.”

“The Queen’s life.” Aramis draws his pistol.

“She is alive, but shaken.”

“And the child?”

“Well, as far as the King’s physician can tell. The Cardinal prays for them.”

“I’m sure he does.” Treville gives Constance his best smile. “Madame D’Artagnan, it would appear that we must make our apologies. D’Artagnan, escort your wife back to your home, follow as soon as you are able.”

They walk back to their home hand in hand. D’Artagnan is torn between duty, to his new wife and to the Musketeers. He can feel the tension in the air, see it in the faces of the other Musketeers that he passes. He looks at Constance and feels her agitation, the way her hand grips his with white knuckles. Bonacieux’s words come back to him, a soldier’s life.

“You should go, be with the others. Truly, D’Artagnan, you should. Your place is with them.”

“My place is with my wife on our wedding day.”

They reach their home and D’Artagnan picks up Constance and carries her over the threshold. “Careful!” She smiles. “I’m heavier than I used to be.”

“You’re still as light as a feather.”

D’Artagnan takes her to the bedroom, lays her down on the bed and kisses her long and deep.

“Go.” Constance’s hands find his shoulders, squeeze him tightly. “You know that you should. I will be here, when you get back.”

D’Artagnan pauses, a tear inside him. _Now I know why Musketeers take no wives. Love and honour and duty, poisons to each other. If I go, the Queen’s life, and the life of her child, is more important to me than my wife, and our child. If I stay, I desert my post_.

“D’Artagnan.” Constance kisses him long and hard and deep. “I mean it. I shall be here, when you return. Just make sure that you do return.”

###

Afternoon turns to dusk and then evening and Constance waits for her husband to come home to her. The night turns chill and she finds a shawl, then a blanket, until she admits defeat and removes her dress, changes it for another, warmer dress. _I always thought that it would be my husband who took off my dress on the night of my wedding_ , she thinks as she folds the dress back into the tissue paper and tucks it into a chest at the end of the bed. Her hands linger on her stomach, bigger now. _This is what it means to be a Musketeer’s wife. You knew this._

_I did not know that it would be like this._

Constance is almost asleep by the fire when their door opens and D’Artagnan brings with him cold rain and wind. His footsteps are fast and sure and he is on his knees next to her when she opens her eyes.

“You’re hurt.” There’s a mark on his cheek, her hands shake when she touches it.

He takes her hand and kisses it and his mouth shakes.“A scratch.”

“The Queen?”

D’Artagnan looks away. “She is well but … two of her maids are dead. Poison.”

“Poison. Do you know who?”

D’Artagnan shakes his head. “The Cardinal has filled the Bastille with suspects but Treville has his suspicions. The Cardinal has tried to kill the Queen before.”

“Before she was with child.”

D’Artagnan swallows, meets her eyes and grips her hands. “There is a rumour, a terrible thing. That the Queen’s child is not the King’s. Treville has asked that we ride out as soon as possible, find the source of this nonsense and put an end to it.”

“An end.” Constance squeezes her husband’s hand. “You mean to leave this instant?”

“Soon. First light. Treville does not want us to leave the city until order returns.” D’Artagnan looks pale and drawn. “There are men fighting on the streets, Constance. Some say the Red Cloaks are behind it. They say that the King will declare martial law and close the city. Treville has told me to spend tonight here, with you, and ride back to them at first light. He doesn’t trust what can happen in the dark.”

Constance smiles, stands, and removes her husband’s cloak. It is dusty and wet and dirty, with what she doesn’t know, but he’s here and for the first time since she sent him away, he looks afraid. “Then let us make every hour last.”

She takes him into their bed, undresses him and lets him undress her, her hands tangling in the soft hair that covers his body. She likes the hairs at the base of his neck the best, soft and dark and delicate, that curls around his neck. His breath is hot and wet against her skin, ragged pants that he can’t control. Afterwards they lie together, the sheets pooled on the floor, D’Artagnan’s hands trailing slow circles on Constance’s back. Her new ring catches the candlelight, bright and shiny.

“Do you know yet, if it is a girl or a boy?”

“No.” Constance presses wet kisses to D’Artagnan’s chest. “Some women say that they can tell, but I have no idea.” She raises her head, meets D’Artagnan’s eyes. “You wish for a son?”

“I wish for a healthy child. And a healthy mother.” He hugs her closer. “My mother … she died, birthing my brother.”

“I did not know that you had a brother.”

“I don’t. Not for many years. He did not live long, after my mother died.”

“I’m sorry.” Constance kisses him, harder. “I’m sorry.”

Daylight comes too soon, Constance watches D’Artagnan dress. _I will watch him dress every day for the rest of my life_ , she thinks. His hands close around his sword and pistol. _Or his_. She pushes that thought away. He bids her farewell with a long kiss and is gone.

She does not see him for three days.

A little bird arrives from the Musketeer barracks, a small piece of paper with scrawled lines on it. D’Artagnan has gone south with the rest of the regiment. Constance rubs a hand over her stomach and prays. On Sunday she ventures to the church, the same church where they said their vows. The priest is courteous but that is all; he did not approve of their marriage and he does not approve of her in his church, even if she does sit at the back with a bonnet to hide her face. Out of the corner of her eye she sees black curls, a silk dress. _No_ , she thinks. _No, it cannot be_.

She feels eyes on her as she walks back to their house, a haughty stare, all-knowing. _How can one woman know so much?_ There is a knock at the door just as she removes her coat and bonnet; Milady deWinter stands on the other side when Constance opens the door.

“What do you want?”

“I saw you, in church.” Milady speaks to Constance’s stomach. “I hear that congratulations are in order. Your new ring is not yet tarnished, I see.”

“Leave.” Constance looks at Milady and sees that smile, that same one she reserved for Constance in the parlour of her ex-husband’s house. _D’Artagnan and I are friends, intimate friends_.

“He’ll never love you, you know.” Milady reaches out to brush a curl behind Constance’s ear. “Not the way he loves them. They’re all the same, the Musketeers. Duty and honour, brotherhood. That’s all that matters to them. Athos was the same.”

“Athos didn’t love you because you were a traitor and a thief. You murdered his brother.”

“That may be. But I could have been the best wife in the world to him, and he still would have betrayed me. Every time he chooses them over you, it’s a betrayal. A small one, yes, but lots of small things become one large thing, eventually, a bitter root that will twist everything that you ever loved about him until the very sight a blue cloak makes you want to weep. He’ll try and persuade you, I’m sure. D’Artagnan has many … talents. But all the love in the world won’t be enough for him not being here when you need him.”

Constance slams the door in her face.

Her dreams are long and deep and so vivid its like she’s awake. She dreams of running through the streets seeing nothing but blue cloaks, covered in blood. She sees battered Musketeer cuffs on the floor and a sword dripping blood. She hears her own screams, a warm bath. She sees a young woman dying with a baby boy in her arms, a solemn little man standing over his mother’s grave, no words to speak. She only wakes when D’Artagnan’s cold hands slide over her nightdress, his lips following his fingertips.

“Where have you been?” She draws him into their bed and shivers against his cold leather tunic, the cuff on his arm bearing the Musketeer emblem, still stiff, even now.

“Away, far away. I’m back now.”

“Did you find who did this to the Queen?”

“Yes.” He kisses her, soft and slow. “Yes, we did. Its over.”

Constance opens her eyes and sees her husband’s face, bruises and cuts everywhere. “What happened?”

“One of the Queen’s assassins got in my way.” D’Artagnan kisses her ever-expanding stomach. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Milady deWinter came to see me, while you were gone.” She says as they watch the sun rise together.

D’Artagnan goes very still and quiet. He kisses her forehead and says, “What did she say to you?”

 _That you’ll never love me the way you love them_. “Nothing of import.”

“She said something, tell me what it is.”

Constance lifts her head, stares at her husband. “Did you sleep with her?”

D’Artagnan sighs, but nods. “Once, when I had just come to Paris, after my father died. She tried to frame me for a murder I did not commit.”

“Sounds just like her. She’s very beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you.” D’Artagnan kisses her, rubs his hand across her stomach. “You know that Milady means nothing to me, don’t you?”

Constance bites her lip, looks at her husband. “She told me that you would never love me the way you love them. That honour and duty would poison our marriage.”

“The only thing that will poison our marriage is if she continues to darken our door.”D’Artagnan pulls her tight against him. “I will speak to Athos and Treville. She has been banished from all of France. If she calls again and I am out, show her how good you are with a pistol.”

###

“I want to go to Gascony.” Constance says one day, as they take an early evening stroll. “I want to see where you are from.”

“Its all gone.” A shadow crosses D’Artagnan’s heart when he thinks about his farm. “Destroyed.”

“Have you been back to survey the damage?”

“No, but one of my tenants wrote to me.”

“Do you wish to go back?”

“I will, eventually, but not until the baby is born.”

Constance smiles down at her stomach. She is big now, almost as large as the Queen. Her skin and hair glow and she has never looked more beautiful. “I should like to see where you’re from. Gascony cannot be that bad, surely?”

“Its beautiful. And boring. There’s nothing to do but raise chickens and cattle and rear crops.”

“I doubt that.” D’Artagnan kisses his wife. “Have you decided whether we are to be parents to a girl, or a boy?”

“I don’t know. All of Paris believe the Queen is having a boy because of how the child sits on her figure. But I do not know.”

“Maybe we will have one of each.”

“Don’t say that!” She smacks him lightly on the arm and sighs. “We have not yet discussed names, D’Artagnan.”

“Plenty of time for that. Two months at least.”

“You said that two months ago.”

D’Artagnan thinks of the paper, tucked away inside his tunic. He’s started to write down names, as he finds or thinks of them. Girls on one side, boys on the other. At night, when Constance has gone to sleep, he lies in bed and stares at the papers, thinks about what will happen in eight weeks, when everything will change. He’s excited, so excited. And terrified. _Its happening, its really happening_.

“I want to go to Gascony, after the baby comes.” Constance is wearing that look she has, when absolutely nothing can change her mind. “I want to see where you’re from. I want our child to know where its father is from. I want to get out of Paris, see some more of the country. You’ve travelled so much more than me.”

“The roads between Gascony and Paris do not count as travelling, Constance. And when I leave the city for Musketeer business, mostly I worry too much about being shot to appreciate the view. And besides, we haven’t been to your hometown yet.”

“My hometown?” Constance snorts. “Nothing there but beggars and thieves.”

“Still.” D’Artagnan smiles and kisses his wife. “If we’re going to see my home, we should see yours too.”

###

The Queen has her child, a son they name Philip. He has a head of thick dark hair and is healthy. Every church in Paris rings bells night and day until Constance can get no rest. The King proclaims a day of rest for all the city and festivities that will last a week. The Musketeers and their families are permitted to see the Royal family; Queen Anne remembers Constance and seeks her out. She looks tired but radiant.

“Madame D’Artagnan, you look well.”

“I look fat, you mean.” The words are out before Constance can keep them in. To her absolute horror, the Queen laughs.

“Yes, I remember that feeling well.” Her eyes stray to D’Artagnan, who is sharing wine and smiles with Porthos while Aramis and Athos patrol the grounds. “He is your husband?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Constance smiles. “He is.”

“You look happy, Madame.”

“As do you, Your Grace.”

Queen Anne’s eyes move around the room. “Tell me, where are your husband’s companions? They have not yet come inside to take food and drink.”

“The Musketeers take their duties very seriously.”

“I’m sure they do.” Queen Anne smiles, but her eyes are sad. Constance should know; she’s seen that smile on her own face, once upon a time. Prince Philip is a beautiful child, happy and healthy and full of grace. He gurgles and smiles and Constance’s heart swells when she sees him. _I hope that our child will be as healthy as this child_.

“Will Philip be King?” She asks D’Artagnan as they lie in bed that night.

“He should, God willing.”

“Do you think he will be a good King?”

D’Artagnan kisses his wife, strokes her bare back. “God willing.”

“They could have been friends, in another life. Prince Philip and our child.”

“They could. Maybe they will, one day. Maybe our child will be a beautiful girl and catch the eye of the young Prince and he’ll marry her and live in the palace. Then our grandchildren will sit on the throne.”

Constance laughs. “A commoner marrying royalty? You sound like a revolutionary.”

“No.” D’Artagnan holds his wife tight. “I would not wish that, on my child. The riches and comfort, surely, but I want our children to choose who they love. Who they marry. They should be lucky like us.”

###

They are abed when Constance feels the pain, a sharp stab between her legs and then water, gushing water. “D’Artagnan.” He’s awake as soon as he feels her shift. “D’Artagnan, its time.”

The labour is long and painful; halfway through Constance believes she might die from the pain. D’Artagnan waits outside, pacing like a man possessed.

“D’Artagnan, you must calm yourself.” Athos stops his friend, a hand on his arm. “All will be well, I am sure.”

“She shouldn’t be screaming like that.” D’Artagnan wants to break down the door and deliver the child himself. He wants to be there to hold his wife’s hand and ease her pain. “That isn’t normal.”

“D’Artagnan, you must be calm. You must be strong for Constance.”

D’Artagnan closes his eyes and he hears another woman’s screams, a small boy who couldn’t understand why his mamma was crying and no-one could make it stop. He smells the blood in the air, remembers his father’s face. He remembers a small bundle buried in the ground next to his mamma. When he opens his eyes, the screaming has stopped.

“What’s happened?” He makes for the door, kicks it open. “Constance! Constance!”

She is lying in their bed, sheets at her feet. There is blood and mess and the midwife is trying to force him out of the room but he moves her to one side as if she weighed nothing. “Constance!”

“Its alright.” She looks up at him, his wife, tired and sweaty and still in pain, but she holds a small bundle that is crying. It’s a good sound. “Look, D’Artagnan, look at her.”

 _Her_. D’Artagnan has tears in his eyes. _Her. I have a daughter. We have a daughter_.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Constance takes his hand, draws him close to the bed. “Look at her, D’Artagnan.”

And he does. D’Artagnan looks down at the little bundle that they have created, ten little fingers and toes and skin like his and hair and eyes like her mother’s, and his cheeks are wet. He presses his forehead to Constance’s and smiles. “Are you alright? When I heard your screams I thought-”

“I’m fine, D’Artagnan. Tired. Birthing children’s a painful business. Worse than any Musketeering. But I’m alright.”

“She’s beautiful.” D’Artagnan wipes his cheeks but they won’t stay dry. “She’s beautiful. You both are.”

“We should name her.” Constance says. “She has to have a name.”

D’Artagnan fumbles at his tunic, the piece of paper covered in his scrawl. “I have a list.”

###

No church bells ring when Francoise D’Artagnan is born. There are no national celebrations, just wine and pastries shared between friends. Treville insists that D’Artagnan take some time away from the Musketeers to spend with his family. Athos arrives with a small wooden chest full of caps and bonnets, shawls and dresses.

“My mother always wanted grandchildren.” He says, with that sad smile he has.

Aramis arrives bearing wine and good tidings, and for some reason that Constance cannot fathom, his smile is sadder than Athos’. “It warms my heart to see a family together.” He says when Constance asks him about it.

Porthos brings a wooden cradle that he made himself, laughter and merriment and the promise that nothing will harm the child as long as he breathes.

Queen Anne pays a visit, not that Francoise will remember it. She brings Prince Philip with her and the two children stare at each other with rapt attention. “Maybe they will be playmates, one day.” Queen Anne says.

Constance looks at her daughter, with her thick mop of auburn hair and knitted woollen dress, and then looks at Philip, resplendent in his satin and peal doublet and britches, and prays not.

“Maybe, Your Grace.”

The sun sets when D’Artagnan returns home. He is dusty and sweaty from his ride back to Paris, his blue cape dark with mud. He sweeps Constance into his arms for a long, searching kiss before taking his daughter from his wife’s arms. “And how are my two favourite ladies?”He nuzzles the girl’s face, bounces her on his lap like he has been doing it his whole life.

Constance smiles, rubs her stomach, still not quite the same as it once was. She thinks back to that day, in the tub, when she rubbed her stomach and knew that her whole world was going to change. _I was lucky_ , she thinks. She tells D’Artagnan later, how lucky she feels. Not with words, but with her touch and her kiss and the way she makes his breath hitch against her skin. _Yes_ , she thinks when he moans her name and she hears her daughter gurgling in her cradle. _I am lucky_.

FIN.


End file.
